Wandering to find my way Home

Author: tworoadsdivergedinyellowwood

Just Frances threw back her head laughing and nearly spilled her tea. “Can see why they’d choose you. You’re splendid.”

“Thanks. From what little I’ve seen, so’re you.”

“Thanks ever so much. Take another cake?”

“Wouldn’t mind if I did.”

“You’re a growing boy; of course you wouldn’t mind. You probably wouldn’t mind if you took another six.”

Angus was growing impatient with being left out of a conversation with a girl. That was Angus for you. “Are you aware you’re not the only person in the room who’s hungry, Wulf?” Angus asked in a whine.

Frances offered Angus a cake, or three. Angus took a cake (quite possibly four, but there might’ve been more he spirited away without Wulf, or Aunt Stacia and Aunt Maggie, observing it).

Frances tapped his hand after the eighth cookie. “Leave some for prof, won’t you Angus?”

Frances had eyelashes. Angus didn’t stand a chance. Aunt Maggie and Aunt Stacia seemed both delighted and appalled by this turn of events.

Wulf might have been mistaken, but he thought he heard Aunt Maggie whisper, “We never did that in my day,” which was an entirely unfair statement. If there had been a bigger flirt than Aunt Maggie in Wulf’s family, he thought he would probably have heard of it by now. Maggie was a maiden Aunt entirely by choice, and had had more proposals in the last year than Adeline, Wulf’s eligible nineteen year old cousin.

Adeline had received offers from a count (too old, apparently), a Duke (looks scurrilous, don’t you think, Wulf darlin’?), several landed knights (too straight-laced, not straight-laced enough, too pretty, downright stupid—he wrote sonnets to my nose, darling, who does that? It was positively objectifying!) and several other individuals Wulf had gotten mixed up on. Was the Milord the wincey one who would go bald within nine years (could you imagine, Wulf, me married to someone bald!) or had he been the one who looked like a horror novel villain? It was entirely possible that he’d been both.

Anyway. Wulf had lost track.

Frances was making conversation with Angus—how the subject had migrated to the state of Bonnie Marshall’s gossip column and the sentimental trash that Delaney wrote and passed off as philosophy, Wulf couldn’t imagine. Frances seemed to notice he’d returned from dreamland, or perhaps she’d asked the question before and he simply hadn’t heard her.

“Have you read any of Delaney’s recent junk, Wulf? He claims that—”

“—the mind is constructed by the brain in the course of childhood, and degrades so that the primary functions of the brain are all lost in old age, so that the only way in which an older person can formulate ideas is by processing old experiences. I mean, how stupid can you be? I mean, Cumtracey’s suggestion that the mind and soul are interconnected makes so much more sense—” Here Cor stopped, seemingly to realize that he had actually made an informed statement about prominent philosophers. “Not that I’d know anything about those people,” He finished.

“Aha,” Wulf said. “More than me, anyway. Stacy William Lancefield is all the philosophy I’ve ever stayed awake for. Socio-political morality’s his gig. Not the origin of the mind, but the origin of morals and the political-moral problem.”

“I couldn’t stomach Branburg, the more prominent socio-polit. Is Lance better?” Cor asked, unable to conceal his curiosity under the veneer of an uneducated pilot.

“Lance is far better. Branburg—you can’t read him before meals, or directly after them, unless you wish to be sick. Lance’s stuff makes sense. That’s a lot more than you can ask of most philosophers.” Wulf commented.

Angus looked confused. Also rather put-out. He was good at faking enlightenment, but honest opinion is a harder thing to fake. Although, Wulf wouldn’t have put it past Angus to read philosophy just so he could prove he knew things. Whether he had read philosophers actually worth reading was a harder thing to say.

Cor nodded, then grinned at Wulf. “D–n, you’re better informed than a bunch of the noble kids that come aboard. A lot of ‘em only know what they’ve been spoon-fed since ten, or what’s in the popular novels today.”

Wulf shuddered. “You’re better off. Don’t. I read three pages by accident and wanted to wash my mind with soap.”

“What is the world coming to?” Aunt Maggie declared. “Innocent children can no longer be trusted in public libraries.”

“I think,” Aunt Stacia said, “that you mean public libraries can no longer be trusted with innocent children. Not the other way around. But if you mean our family’s current progeny cannot be trusted in libraries, I would have to agree with you. First of all, try getting Angus into one, and then try getting Wulf out of one.”

Frances grinned at Wulf. “Happiness consists in a good book.”

“A large cup of tea.” Wulf added.

“And an enemy in whose face you may throw the tea if you care about them enough to waste good tea on them.” Angus contributed.

“Fran. Where’re you, miss? Y’haven’t fed the cakes to everyone, have you?” The voice was so deep and rumbly that Wulf jumped and Angus made a squealing sound like a girl, and Aunt Maggie fainted. Again.

Aunt Stacia sighed with the air of a martyr.

The Professor—or the individual Wulf assumed was the professor—stuck his head up through the hatch. His face was very brown, like a sailor’s, with leathery, wrinkled skin, a long, hooked nose, overlarge mouth, and fierce, intent blue eyes. What color his hair had been Wulf could not tell, but it was now pure white, in a menacing stuck up halo around the old man’s face.

He was wearing a threadbare wool suit out of which his wrists and ankles stuck for inches, and he was very thin. His hands were strong and calloused, the tendons and muscles in them sticking out like the hands of a pianist.

“I saved you an entire plate, Professor.” Frances told the old man, turning toward him with a fond smile on her coal-dust stained face.

The Professor, once he was up the ladder, leaned heavily upon a carved cane, and stumbled slowly across the floor of the pilot’s room to sit beside him. Wulf started to get up to help him, but Frances gave him a warning look and shook her head.

“How are you, Professor?” Cor asked, surprisingly respectfully.

“Well enough, Cornelius. I have been inspired. These four days I have not slept. I cannot close my eyes.” The Professor sank, with a grateful sigh, beside Frances. “That is good. Thank you, miss.”

The Professor whipped his head around to study Wulf. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched his teacup. The blue eyes seemed to burn through the layers of skin and muscle to expose Wulf’s soul. The professor sipped his tea, still searching Wulf.

None of them said anything.

“How old are you, boy?” The Professor asked him.

“Fifteen, sir.” Wulf said, trying to keep his voice from cracking as it so often did when he was speaking to his elders.

“Young enough and old enough. In the fullness of time, perhaps, in the fullness of time. Have you been schooled, boy?” The Professor asked.

“According to some; not according to others.”

“Judicious enough answer. Diplomatic, you are. Bolder you must learn to be. Do not fear yourself, boy. Do not trust blindly. That is all.” The Professor looked away from him.

Wulf took a great breath, suddenly realizing he had forgotten to breathe under the Professor’s scrutiny.

The Professor took a purple cake, examined it, and set it back upon the plate. “Cornelius, send to the school and tell them I shall teach after all. But a year, only a year, half a year, until the leaves have fallen and grown new. Flowers will come. Roses will be finer this year than they have been since I was a child.”

“Are you alright, Professor?” Frances asked.

His fierce, attacking gaze turned on Frances, and softened a little. “But weary, child. Time has come for me to be abed. Wake me when we arrive. Take our lady up gentle.” The Professor struggled to his feet, met Aunt Stacia’s startled gaze, and bowed deeply. “Madam. I thank you for watching my charges so closely. You will find what you seek in Elerci, before year’s end. Before snow, after rain, in sun, in dark. Moon high and clouds hard.”

“God be with you.” Aunt Stacia whispered.

“And you, lady.”

The Professor stumbled off.

Wulf clutched the chair beside him for support, feeling drained and utterly exhausted.

“He is a great man,” Frances said in the silence.

“I’ve never met one like him.” Wulf said. Then; “Aunt Stacia, what did he mean, you will find what you seek in Elerci?”

Aunt Stacia did not reply. When Wulf looked up to see what was wrong, he found that her face was covered in tears.

It was not precisely a crash as much as a harder landing than Wulf had been expecting. It sent Aunt Stacia’s tea-service shattering across the floor, the nuts and cookies which had been placed thereupon skittering madly across the floor. Aunt Stacia let out a little whoop of horror. Aunt Maggie fainted. Cousin Angus yelled in excitement.

Wulf was too busy rescuing Aunt Maggie’s new cat, Oliver, from flying out the window, to participate in the excited chaos.

The setdown was over a moment later, and out of the engine room below came a mad laugh. Something crawled up the ladder, poking its head into the pilot’s room with a madcap, devilish grin.

There was so much grime on the creature’s skin that Wulf had trouble identifying it as human for a moment. He at first couldn’t help thinking it was some kind of demon, materializing from the blackness and shadow of the engine room.

“That was a bit rough, wasn’t it, Cor?” The thing asked the pilot, in a remarkably civilized, musical, and distinctly feminine voice.

“Why,” Angus said, “You’re a girl.”

The figure looked down at itself, laughed aloud at the state of disrepair its clothes were in, and looked up at them, flashing pearly teeth at them through blackened lips. “I suppose I am. Hadn’t noticed that before.”

Aunt Stacia let out a little tiny moan of agony. “Your dress—”

“Not a dress, actually.” The girl said. “Work clothes. You alright, miss? You seem very rattled. Like some tea? Oh, dear, the tea’s spilt. Never fear, there’s a service down in the bones that will do admirably. Cor, whatever are you trying to do?”

The pilot, a remarkably young man with curly red hair spilling and milling from underneath it’s cap and goggles, turned to grin at her. “Nothing good, doll. Managed to survive, did you? That’s bad. Was hoping you and the prof would die of aneurysms in the basement.”

“Sorry to disappoint; you’ll have to murder me in the usual way. Why are these kids here, anyhow? Shouldn’t they be in the apartments?” The girl asked the pilot.

“They ought to be, but there were so many today that I had to let some of them up here. Stuffy old lady—wife of some minister or other—wanted a room to herself, ladyship did, and was going to have it, you’ll see—and then there’s cargo aboard, and all that jazz and so on—so it was bound to be difficult. Then they asked for a special landing in Crameo’er Landon, of all places. But ladyship had to be humored, I daresay, and all those folks from the powers that be.” The pilot—Cor, evidently—explained, rather longwindedly.

“Daresay. I’ll get these passers a spot of tea. Have us up again as soon as you like; all’s ready down below. Nothing damaged, prof says, and he’s probably right, lady being practically his wife, daughter and home, in a sense. He’d kill you if anything was, though.”

“He was the one who invited the folks; it’d be his own fault and his bed to lie in. No harm done, though. We’ll be taking up in half an hour, if it’ll do.”

“Splendid. You want tea?”

“Something stronger, if you’ve got it.”

“Finley do?”

“Perfect, thanks.”

“Right then,” the girl said, and departed by releasing her grip of the ladder completely and dropping down who knew how many feet, where only a very soft sound was heard as her feet touched wood.

“Who’s that, then?” Wulf asked the still grinning Cor, and readjusted his grip on the calm and unimpressed Oliver. Oliver gave an aristocratic mew, and turned his scrawny body into Wulf’s shoulder, yawning in boredom. Wulf decided that the stray would not go home with Aunt Maggie. Oliver would stay with him. Any cat that could stare down a bulldog in an alley and go to sleep straightaway after a crash like that was a cat after his own heart.

“When you’ve got that much money,” Wulf interrupted dryly, “minor eccentricities of that sort are allowed.” Wulf had a quick flash of comprehension, and a fluttering idea. “Is it possible that she’s a part of the United Mail Service?”

Cor grinned at Wulf conspiratorially, and Wulf knew his extrapolation had been a correct one. “Anything’s possible.”

Aunt Stacia did not begin to comprehend the conversation. Nor did Angus; but Angus, with a shrug, gave up worrying over it, and began drawing with some ink in a bottle over Aunt Maggie’s face. Aunt Stacia screamed in outrage.

Aunt Maggie woke up. The next five minutes were eventful, and looked rather unpleasant for Angus, from Wulf’s point of view. But then, Wulf had never liked getting his ears energetically tugged in two directions by two cross maiden aunts.

Frances, as the coal-dust covered girl was called, emerged up the ladder bearing a quaintly carved wooden tea service, with her face and hands significantly cleaner than they had been.

Frances offered Cor a slender metal flask of something, (probably something slightly illegal for somebody as young as Cor, but Wulf had had sips from his parents before and judge ye not lest ye be judged, as they said) and then sat down next to Wulf, stroked Oliver gently and offered him some cream and a bit of salmon in a saucer. Oliver was in love at once. He ate up all she fed him, and then laid down in their laps, tail in Wulf’s lap, head in Frances’s, happy as the devil on doomsday.

Frances poured and they ate cookies better than any Wulf had had in the month he’d been away from home, indescribably fluffy darling cakes, and more robust, really properly messy sandwiches. Wulf was well on his way to being as won as Oliver.

They hadn’t any chance to converse, for the old Lady Cor had complained of had come up and was spouting unladylike words and imprecations and companionably telling Cor to go to hell when he told her she had been the one to choose air travel to get to her party in Windsmeer and that all passengers were informed they mightn’t reach their destinations at expected times.

Frances made matching faces for the lady’s increasingly unlikely suggestions and Wulf choked on his tea.

“Mail service?” Wulf guessed when his aunts had stopped scolding and the lady had been given tea and gone off darkly vowing to have them all hanged for mutiny.

Otherwise entitled: I never write Decent Regular Blog posts for you guys and just randomly throw out rants and pieces of writing I did since I have no time for anything else and I really don’t know why all you wonderful amazing people are following me in the first place. (But I Truly Do Appreciate It, y’all are wonderful and I love you all!)

Here: freshly written conversation very similar to those I have with family members.

“You speak at last.” Heather said, throwing her dress out the bathroom door. “Don’t fold that. No, I mean that seriously, I’ll butcher you if you touch it. I’ll do it myself. Just let me get my shower. What did you eat for dinner? I’m famished.”

I left her dress, wrapped myself up in a blanket, and sat by the bathroom door. “Why are your clothes always on the floor?”

“Why are yours and Rose’s perfect? It’s the second Law of Thermodynamics, sweetpea.” The shower switched on and Heather started humming Coldplay.

“That argument only goes so far, and we have room inspections at the Academ, you know.”

“Do we? I hadn’t noticed.”

“They post it every Friday.”

“Eh, I sleep through that part of the morning.”

“It happens at four o’clock in the afternoon when everyone turns up in the Cafeteria looking for food before late afternoon activities.”

“Like I said; I’m asleep for that part of the morning. But you were saying what you ate.”

“I wasn’t saying and I didn’t ate.” I said, and leaned my head against the wall.

“Semantics.”

“Don’t bother me with grammar, I’m the one whose supposed to bother you with grammar.”

“Fine, then, I’ll bother you with this; you should eat, like a marginally healthy, mentally stable person. Even if it’s just ice cream. I think this is an ice cream kind of night.”

Please let me warn you; I am going to express Catholic opinions. Please do not feel attacked. I do not wish to hurt you with my words. I do not wish to judge you.

Life is sacred.

I am just going to say this. Life is sacred.

When does a child start being a child? Birth?

Then why is partial birth abortion still legal?

When does a person stop being human? When does it become right to kill?

A lot of people would say it’s never right to kill. Then why do we use euthanasia? It’s called mercy killing. How can it be merciful to kill a living, breathing human?

We aren’t given things. Life isn’t always fair. We fight and we bleed and we lose people and all the things we thought we needed. But don’t we have the right to live? At least? Just that. The right to struggle and try and fail and try again.

Human life is sacred.

The conception and birth of a child is sacred. They are defenseless and have done nothing wrong.

The death of a person should be natural. There should be no more killing, no more war, no more euthanasia. There should only be a peaceful end.

Please.

Protect life. Spring is coming.

Spring is about new life and hope.

Give the next generation of humans hope. Give them an understanding of the wonder of life. Let them choose to give life, to let live.

Forgive my faulty words. Forgive me if I hurt you by them; I don’t mean to. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want all this death to stop.

don’t kill for religion

it doesn’t stop people from believing what they want

don’t kill for political reasons

there are better ways to find solutions

don’t kill as a mercy

teach the person to value their lives instead

don’t kill yourself for any reason

not for despair; you are strong enough to endure; not for depression; keep breathing. Please. I want you to live. If you are wavering, live. Please.

First installment, as promised, of the Adventures of the Valiant Student and her trusty wolf Wisdom.

Upon that fateful autumn day, I had no idea what perils would face me in my coming adventures. I had only just begun packing the heroic essentials for my quest. The elixirs of immortality were among the first things I put in my satchel. The servings come helpfully bagged dry to minimize space; my favorites are the orange and mint flavored ones.

I brought along provisions for the road—although I would be provided with meals for the guild, the guild sometimes overlooks necessary things like chocolate.

I added my armor; plastic and modest, lined pages within to aid me in my quest.

My dagger collection was next. First came the favorite; blue, comfortable grip, rollout eraser. I put in about a dozen spares, and a few ink daggers as well.

My mentor looked me up and down proudly, and sent me off on my quest.

The mountains of mathematics and the cliffs of calculus were ready to be climbed. I would conquer them yet.

I set off down the road of knowledge, with my trusty wolf Wisdom beside me, his nose turned skyward, sniffing the air. The cliffs were upon us before we knew it. Wisdom led the way, finding safe footholds ahead where none were to be seen.

I brought out my climbing hook (rectangular and plastic, little keys waiting to assist me in calculating the cliffs and mapping them) and flung it. Embedded in the rock, it drew me upwards. My fingers were soon stained with blood from the sharpness of the cliff face, and my eyes stung with dust.

But I had become confident too soon. The rock beneath my feet crumbled, and I skidded down the slope. I caught myself on a ledge, yanking my shoulder from its proper position. I bit my lip, tears of anger sliding down my cheeks.

For your enjoyment. Actually a bit of a chronicle of schoolwork for me. So (sort of) autobiographical?